Still Life (Still Life Series Book 1)

by Isobel Hart

  “I don’t want you to go anywhere,” he said. “He’s a microbiologist. A friend from work. He’s great, just not really used to being around half-naked beautiful women. I’ll dig out some clothes for you. An ex of mine left some stuff here in a box she never collected, so hopefully something in there will fit you. Why don’t you grab a shower and I’ll leave the box in your room?”

  I scurried into the bathroom, peeling off my shirt and knickers before stepping into the shower. I lifted my face to meet the warmth of the powerful spray, enjoying the cleansing feeling. When I stepped out again, reluctantly, I felt better than I had done in the previous twenty-four hours. I avoided my reflection, unwilling to witness the bruises circling my neck, the thought alone sending my heart racing.

  With my back to the mirror, I found a comb and untangled my hair, before brushing my teeth. Wrapped in a large bath towel, I padded across the hallway, back to my room. Voices drifted towards me from the lounge; Elliott laughed at something the other person said.

  Back in my room, I fished out a t-shirt and some jogging bottoms from the box of clothes Elliott had left on the bed for me. I looked down at myself; clearly the previous owner of the clothes possessed a smaller bust size than I did. The t-shirt hugged my chest in a most distracting way, stopping well short of the waistline of the jogging bottoms, somewhere near my belly button. I rummaged through the rest of the box for an alternative, but found nothing any larger. The jogging bottoms were fine, but together I feared the whole ensemble made me look like I planned to parade a number around a boxing ring. I contemplated putting the t-shirt I’d worn to bed back on, but, since that came nearly to my knees and carried a faint whiff of sweat, decided to make do until I could get back to the apartment to collect some of my own stuff.

  Taking a deep breath, I walked out into the lounge to meet Elliott’s friend.

  Chapter 12

  He turned out to be everything I imagined a microbiologist should be. Small and thin, with premature baldness, leaving only curly wisps that stuck out over his ears. I grinned as soon as I saw him.

  In return he gawped at me, in a decidedly un-paternalistic way, his eyes sweeping over my inadequately clad form and coming to rest somewhere between my exposed midriff and my chest. Elliott didn’t perform much better but recovered more quickly, especially when I crossed my arms to cover myself.

  “Malcolm, roll your tongue in,” Elliott grumbled at his friend, who blushed. “Malcolm, meet Samantha. Sam, this is Malcolm.”

  Reluctantly, I unwrapped an arm from around my middle to shake the offered hand.

  “Sam, can I get you a coffee?”

  “Umm . . .” I didn’t fancy a coffee for once. “Maybe water? Or orange juice if you have any?”

  “No coffee! Are you sure you feel okay?” Elliott laughed as he reached for a carton from the fridge and poured me a large glass of fresh orange juice.

  “I feel much better.” I took the glass he handed me. “Thank you,” I said, giving him a smile as I took a sip.

  “Your voice sounds a lot better today,” he noted. “And it’s my pleasure.”

  I put my glass down after taking another sip and wrapped my arms back around my chest.

  “Right, now we’re all here, and focused,” Elliott gave Malcolm a meaningful look, “how about we talk about the samples?”

  “Samples?”

  “Ah yes, the samples,” Malcolm said.

  “Malcolm and I were interested in the news about the retrovirus they found in the fog. We’ve been looking at patient samples to see what more we could discover about it.” I nodded to show I understood so far, as he continued; “From what Malcolm can tell, the virus is present only in men, exactly as the initial reports suggested, seeming to lie dormant within the cell. I had a hunch, so I asked Malcolm to look at samples from a varied population of patients within the hospital to see if he could find any differences in the virus activity among them.”

  “And did you?” I looked at Malcolm.

  “I did.” Malcolm grinned. If he’d been a dog, his tail would have been wagging. “Two of the samples you gave me were very different. In those the virus was active. It had integrated itself into the cell DNA entirely. In fact, I’d say the new DNA had become dominant.”

  “What does that even mean?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Malcolm admitted. “We don’t know what impact it had on the patients, if any. All we know for sure is that under certain circumstances the virus becomes active, despite what the media is saying, and the DNA in those patients is genetically different as a result.”

  “Okay, well then, I need to look at the records to see more about what happened to the patients . . . to understand if there was a trigger for activation.” Elliott sounded thoughtful.

  “I have a theory,” Elliott continued. “I’ll tell you about it if it appears to be right, but for now, if it’s okay with you, I want to keep it to myself.” He glanced quickly over towards Malcolm, as if to warn him to keep his mouth shut. “We could go today?” Elliott suggested, looking at me. “If you don’t mind – and if you feel up to it? I mean, you don’t have to come at all. You could stay here if you prefer?”

  “I want to come with you,” I said. The prospect of being on my own today was more terrifying than the thought of being outside the safety of the house. “It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do, although I wouldn’t mind stopping by my apartment first to get some of my own clothes.” I looked down at my outfit. “Before we go anywhere public I mean.” I laughed. The sensation hurt my throat, bringing with it the realisation it must have been the first time since my attack that I’d managed to laugh. I supposed that had to be some sort of progress.

  ***

  Less than an hour later, we were all sitting in my car outside my apartment block. Elliott insisted we let the police know our intentions, and they had in turn warned the officer stationed outside – I presumed he was there to wait for Edward’s return. I still struggled to believe Edward could be up and walking around after the way I’d hit him with the wooden elephant. But the fact remained that, as yet, no body had been found, and there hadn’t been sight nor sound of him apart from the text I’d received.

  Leaving Malcolm in the car on lookout, we walked up the stairs to the apartment, Elliott in the lead, muscles tense, half expecting Edward to jump out on us at any moment. The neon bulb in the hallway flickered. Every instinct inside me screamed run. Instead, I followed like the proverbial lamb.

  Elliott banged on the door, the sound echoing along the hallway. I froze. My heartbeat sounded nearly as loud as it pounded in my ears, adrenaline making my pulse race as I fought the urge to flee. I rubbed my neck, as we waited for any sort of response from within.

  Elliott placed a hand on my arm. “He’s not here, that officer said so. And even if he was, I won’t let any harm come to you.”

  I nodded, unable to speak, my breaths coming short and fast as anxiety threatened to overwhelm me.

  He waited another minute without response, then used the key I’d given him earlier – the one the police had given back to me – and unlocked the door. We stepped inside, stopping close to where it had happened. My eyes found the spot where I’d last seen Edward. As expected, exactly as the police had reported, there was nothing there. No blood. “He was there.” I pointed to the spot where I’d left him. I swivelled towards Elliott, my fear palpable. “He was just there. I left him lying there . . . he was in a pool of his blood.”

  “I believe you,” Elliott reassured me, taking hold of my hand. “Hey,” he said, feeling my racing pulse, “He’s not here, he can’t hurt you. You’re safe.” But I didn’t feel safe. Memories of the smell and appearance of the blood drowned my senses, making me gag, the nausea threatening to overwhelm me. I pushed away from Elliott and sprinted into the toilet, reaching the bowl as I gagged again. I broke out in a sweat, clutching the sides of the pan for dear life, taking deep breaths until the feeling passed.

  Elliott wal
ked into the bathroom and bent to rub my back. “You’re safe,” he soothed. “It’s just the adrenaline making you feel like that. It’s shock. Take some more deep breaths. As soon as you feel better, we’ll grab your stuff and get out of here, okay?”

  I sat back on my knees, wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead with a piece of toilet roll before throwing it into the bowl and flushing. My legs wobbled, as I stood and the world spun around me, threatening to collapse. Elliott reached a hand under my arm and steadied me. “Stay there,” he said, when he was satisfied I wasn’t going to crumple again, disappearing from the bathroom for a minute, reappearing with a glass of water. “Drink this.”

  I took a long drink of the cool water.

  “Better?”

  I nodded.

  When the world stopped spinning I grabbed my wash bag and started filling it with toiletries, before moving to the bedroom, grabbing one of our big holiday cases, and throwing everything of mine I could find into it. I did not intend to come back.

  Slipping off the borrowed t-shirt I replaced it with a better fitting version and V-neck sweater, pulling on the trainers I usually wore to run in. As the minutes ticked past without any sign of Edward, anger replaced my fear; anger that he’d hurt me, anger that I’d let myself become a victim, anger I’d stayed with him when all my instincts had told me to get the hell out of the relationship months ago. I almost felt sorry he wasn’t there for me to give him a piece of my mind – almost.

  I moved out of the bedroom, back into the lounge, and collected the only other important items to me; my camera and a couple of photos in frames that I’d taken and deemed good enough to hang on the wall.

  “That’s everything,” I said, zipping up the bag. Elliott had followed me into every room, guarding me. He nodded, lifting the suitcase as I shouldered the smaller bag.

  I paused in the doorway to take a last look around at the place I’d called home for nearly two years of my life. My eyes touched upon the elephant, still on the sideboard. Its position was slightly off, evidenced by the darker ring of wood where the dust had settled less heavily. I moved towards it and picked it up, inclined to take it with me – after all it had saved my life. A smear of dark fluid on the corner of its rump caught my eye, and my breath hitched. “There,” I breathed to Elliott, pointing. “That’s what I hit him with . . . there’s blood on it, and some hair, I think.”

  Elliott stared where I pointed and nodded. “Have you got a food bag or something? Something that will seal up? He’s gone to great efforts to hide the attack; I think you should keep this.”

  I nodded and ran into the kitchen to find one of the large sealable Ziploc food bags we kept in the drawer. Elliott picked up the elephant and dropped it into the bag, being careful not to dislodge the hairs, before handing it to me.

  I slipped the bagged elephant into my smaller bag, then shouldered it again. Elliott picked up the suitcase, and we both walked out of the flat. This time I didn’t hesitate. As I pulled the door closed behind us, locking it, I released a thread of the tension I’d held since we’d walked in there. I didn’t relax completely until we were back in the car and pulling away.

  Chapter 13

  Elliott led the way through the hospital hallways, having let the three of us in through one of the rear entrances using his staff pass, up the two flights of stairs to his departmental offices. They were situated close to the surgical theatres.

  At the door to his office, he entered a code into an electronic keypad. I couldn’t help noticing as he punched in one through to six in numerical order. “Not worried about security?”

  “I already have too much to remember without adding entry codes to the list,” he muttered, pushing open the door.

  The small office appeared sparsely decorated: bare magnolia walls competed with a shade-less lightbulb to see which could be less visually stimulating. Two desks occupied the small space, both covered in large piles of poorly stacked files that I recognised as patient notes. It appeared he shared the office with another consultant – someone equally unkempt, if appearances were anything to go by. It looked chaotic and disorganised – and exactly like every other consultant’s desk I’d ever seen in the NHS. And, with my job, I’d seen a few.

  Elliott mumbled apologies as he pulled the chair over from the second desk to a position beside his own, indicating I should sit in it, before unearthing a third chair that had been hidden at the side of the room under a further pile of patient files. When we were all seated, he turned on the antiquated monitor that occupied prime position on his desk, which proceeded to wheeze and click slowly into life.

  “I think you should have a word with your secretary,” I suggested, pointing at the piles of notes that needed filing.

  “She quit,” he said, tapping in a password. “Said I was too disorganised.”

  “Hmm, I wonder why.” I grinned, scanning the room. “I’m amazed you can ever find your patients’ notes when they come in to see you.”

  “Okay,” he said, ignoring me, as the screen came to life slowly and a green cursor flashed, “give me the first patient’s number and let’s see what we’ve got.”

  Malcolm slowly read out the long numerical sequence from the sample he’d found with the active virus as Elliott typed it in. When he pressed “return”, a patient’s record appeared. “Hmm . . .” He scanned through the case notes. “Okay, he’s an acute allergic asthma patient, brought in with chronic breathing problems . . .” He went silent as he read further. “I can’t see anything that jumps out at me. Nothing that explains why he’d have a different response to the virus compared to the rest of the population.” He talked to himself under his breath as he scrolled through the screens, his eyes tracing backwards and forwards across the lines as he looked for anything that could explain it. “Hold on . . . here! He went into respiratory arrest when he was down in A&E. They resuscitated him.” Elliott looked at Malcolm, his expression triumphant. I was missing something. “What’s the next one?” Elliott asked.

  Malcolm read out the second sequence of numbers, and again Elliott tapped them in. This time it was an acute heart failure patient, brought in with a suspected heart attack – a readmission following an attack only a month before. The case sounded familiar. “Who is the patient?” I asked. Both Malcolm and Elliott squirmed in their seats – it was a massive no-no to reveal any patient-identifiable details. I saved them from their professional dilemma and peered over Elliott’s shoulder. As I expected, Richard Rawson’s name sat at the top of the screen. “That’s Richard,” I said.

  Elliott nodded.

  “They brought him back too, you said.”

  He nodded again.

  “So, hold on a minute, you’re telling me you’ve found the virus has become active in a couple of the samples you’ve looked at, and now you’re looking at what those patients have in common?”

  They both nodded this time.

  “And what they seem to have in common is the fact that they were both resuscitated after their hearts stopped.”

  Again, they nodded.

  “So, what does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” Elliott said finally.

  “Edward’s heart stopped. Does that mean the virus is active in him?”

  “Maybe. But we won’t know until we check his sample.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “I don’t know.” Elliott couldn’t look at me.

  “You don’t know, but what do you think?”

  Malcolm and Elliott exchanged a look. In the end, Malcolm spoke. “The virus is nothing we’ve ever seen before.” He hesitated. “When I found the active virus, it wasn’t just occupying part of the cell. It’s a retrovirus – it blends with the cell, or in this case actually takes the cell over. It seemed, from the samples I looked at, like the original DNA had been replaced by this new viral DNA – it’s that different.”

  “But what does that even mean?” I couldn’t get what they were saying straight in my head.
/>
  “They’re different. Genetically.” Malcolm emphasised the words as if I were being especially dense.

  “They’re different?” I echoed.

  “It’s changed them,” Malcolm agreed.

  “We just need to understand how . . . and why,” Elliott added.

  “Let me get this straight. You think they’re different, that the virus has become activated and changed them.”

  Elliott and Malcolm nodded.

  “And what you think changed them into having activated virus in them was the fact they both needed resuscitation?”

  “I’m not sure. We’re looking at what they have in common . . . that seems to be a common factor, but we need to find more people who are the same, who also have activated virus. I’m not so sure it’s the resuscitation per se . . .” Malcolm paused, seemingly reluctant to say what he really thought.

  “Just fucking tell me!”

  “I think it’s that they died,” Elliott admitted finally.

  I stared at him, struggling to process what he’d just said. “They died, and that’s what caused the virus to activate?”

  “Yes, exactly. Like a backup generator, the virus kicked into life.”

  “And if that hadn’t been there? What would have happened?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Of course fucking honestly,” I said, aware my language capabilities had taken a nosedive but frustrated he’d think I’d want anything but honesty at this point.

  “I think they’d all have died. I think they did die. I think the virus brought them back.”

  I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. When it didn’t come, I started to laugh anyway. “Oh my God . . .” For a good minute those were the only words I could manage, laughter bubbling up each time I considered what they’d told me. I gasped in a breath after each episode, my neck throbbing from the movement. Elliott and Malcolm sat and watched me in silence. “You’re telling me you think this is some sort of zombie shit? You have to be kidding me . . . Seriously? Where are the cameras?”